RAYMOND SNYDER
Well?
I sigh, then type out a brief summary of the hospital visit. He couldn’t care less, though. All he wants to know is if they bought the tripped-and-fell story, if anyone is coming after him for being a world-class douche bag.
When I confirm that no one seemed to be asking too many questions, he sends back two words. That’s twice as many as his first text, so yay for making progress on his communication skills, but they still make me want to vom in my lap.
Good girl.
Ugh. I’d rather smash my face into a million bureau corners than hear him say that to me ever again.
I chuck my phone back into my purse and flop against the pillow. The pamphlet the nurse left behind catches my eye, sitting there on the little wheeled table. The laughing woman pictured on the front looks so deliriously happy that I almost suspect they drugged her for the photoshoot. No one should be smilingthatbig, ever.
When the nurse set it down, I assumed it was aftercare instructions and paid it no mind. It doesn’t take a genius toremember not to rip out your stitches; it just takes, like,not being a literal dog.
But then I see the pamphlet titled picture in somber sans serif.
Are You in an Abusive Relationship?
I laugh so crazily that I feel like I kinda look like the woman on the cover after all. The thing is clearly meant to be serious. I mean, yeah, duh, of course; domestic abuse is no joking matter. I think the laughter is more of a reflection on me than anything else.
I’m laughing because I’m so deeply broken and so irretrievably stuck in this nightmare situation that laughter is the only coping mechanism I have left.
If I let myself start to cry, I’ll never, ever stop.
So I keep my devil-may-care, fuck-it-all mindset alive and well as I flip the pamphlet open and read it like it’s a BuzzFeed quiz.
Which Hogwarts House Are You?
Which Disney Princess Matches Your Vibe?
Is Your Husband Going to Kill You If He Keeps This Up?
It’s a checklist for domestic abuse. It is not great for me.
Does your partner control what you wear or who you see?Uh, check.
Does your partner belittle you in front of others?Check, with a gold star.
Are you afraid of your partner’s temper?Yeah, duh.
Do you feel like you’re walking on eggshells?Babe, Iliveon eggshells. The road to hell is paved with the stuff.
Has your partner ever pushed, pinched, slapped, or choked you?All of the above, and thank you for listing them in increasing order of frequency.
I keep going. Every single box gets a yes. Every little checkmark is another nail in Raymond’s imaginary coffin.
“Ten out of ten!” I whisper to the empty curtain when I’m done. “Congratulations, Cassandra, you’ve won a free divorce and/or funeral!”
I start folding. Crease, crease, flip, crease. My muscle memory from seventh grade study hall is alive and well. When I’m done, I’m holding a glossy paper airplane.
I point, aim, and launch. It sails in a pretty little arc, then crashes into the curtain and nose-dives straight down to the floor. That’s a good omen, right?
Spoiler: It’s not.
Nor is what happens next.
The curtain rustles. A heavy foot comes down on my paper airplane and crushes it flat against the linoleum.
